Sun, Wind, Tears
by Tater Chip Girl
Summary: One-shot retrospective. An old man lives in his memories as he buries his beloved.


Against a backdrop of afternoon sky, an old man stood on a high dune, faded desert robes rippling in the hot wind. His blue eyes trailed across the landscape, caressing with loving memory the undulating sands and enormous stone pyramid. The pale moons suspended over it all were identical in position and angle to the first time he'd seen them from this place. Almost everything was the same as it had been on that day.

One difference was the fresh grave in the sands near the pyramid's entrance ramp. The other was that, for the first time since arriving here, he stood on this spot alone. He'd insisted, and no one had argued with him. His children knew he had to do this, and respectfully stayed behind as he climbed the dune. He was old, but strong, and easily made it to the top.

The tears came again, and the old man didn't stop them. He let the the salty liquid stream down his face and gather like dewdrops in his gray-blonde beard. The funeral, simple and brief as requested, had just taken place. The unclothed body had been placed without grave goods deep into the ground and covered over without ceremony. He had to turn away when the first mound of sand was pushed in.

He hadn't wanted any sad singing, but the people seemed to need it, so he let it be done. Leadership had passed to him, and he needed to remember that they, too, were grieving. It was over now, and he was glad. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with his pain.

"Pop!" A male voice floated up from below. "We have to go!"

The old man took a few deep, settling breaths and carefully wiped his face with the rough sleeve of his robe. "Coming!" he yelled back, waiting while the wind dried his face thoroughly. When he'd finished composing himself, he turned and headed back down to where Angela and Robert waited for him.

He chuckled unexpectedly as he looked at his son, suddenly remembering the day the orphan boy - now a man - had chosen his Earth name. Many options had been placed before him, both from memory and from the suitcase full of books they'd brought with them from Earth. He'd fallen in love with French, deciding that his name should be pronounced in that manner. He'd spent weeks saying it to himself, perfecting his accent.

Angela had been easy - she'd chosen one of the first names offered to her. But try calling her "Angie", "Angel" or anything other than "Angela", and she turned decidedly *non*-angelic. Her brother had made liberal use of this annoyance in their childhood.

The old man stopped short, surprised by this unexpected sweetness in the midst of his mourning.

_He told me this would happen. He always knew somehow. How did he do that?_

He wiped his eyes again and continued down the dune. Sunset was coming soon, and this was the windy season. They had to hurry to beat the sand clouds that came up out of nowhere right before dark. The beasts knew this too, and trotted a bit faster without being prompted.

Every mile of the road back to the city was rich with memories. So much had happened here just in those first few days - a meeting of cultures, a revolution, and in the end all-out war. Myths were shattered; friends were lost to the conflict; a people was unshackled from its blind obedience to a false god. And then there was love.

The impact of the memory almost sent the old man tumbling off his mount. _This isn't the time_, he told himself. _Just a little longer until you're home. Hold on, you can do it._

Home.

What would that be like now? When he took his seat by the fire, how could he ever be comfortable again without the warmth of a familiar shoulder against his? How would it feel to wake up alone in an empty house for the first time?

He didn't want to think about these things, but he did. He couldn't stop himself. When Robert and Angela started singing a blessing song, he closed his eyes gratefully and focused on their sweet harmonies. Other travelers picked up the song, and it moved along the loose lines of people streaming back from the grave to the city. The beasts knew the way on their own, so the old man kept his eyes closed until he heard the cries of the watchman announcing their return.

They passed silently through the narrow, hard-packed dirt streets. No one spoke to them - there was no need. The tearstained faces all around them said everything that needed to be said. Tonight was the funeral feast, and the old man honestly didn't know if he could handle it, even if he drugged himself.

_I was a *soldier*, for God's sake. I should be able to control this. Why does it *hurt* so fucking much?_

After what seemed like forever, he finally found himself back on the ground and standing inside his simple house. Robert put away the beasts outside while Angela added fuel to the fire pit in the middle of the main room.

The old man stared listlessly at the spot against the far wall where they always sat together. The cushions there still bore the imprint of their bodies from a week ago, right before the illness began. He hadn't sat there at all since their upstairs bedroom became the sickroom. He decided he really didn't want to sit there again, and chose a seat on the other side of the pit.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, listening to the homey sounds of Angela wordlessly putting the house in order. When Robert returned, she sent him upstairs with a silent gesture. The blankets and pillows from the sickbed had to be gathered and burned, and the duty had fallen to him.

The old man knew what they were doing, and didn't try to stop them. He knew at this very moment that Robert was shoving armfuls of bedding out the small upstairs window at the back of the house, letting it all fall into the alley two stories below. He knew friends would be waiting down there to speak words of protection over it and carry it away to the furnace. He knew Angela would soon be up there herself, making the bed for him.

_Who cares if the bed is made? I won't sleep there again. How can I? How can I even be in this house anymore without him?_

He wanted so badly to be left on his own with his memories. They were his sole comfort now. He didn't want to care about the kids or the grandkids or that the people needed their leader more than ever. All he wanted was to lie down in the dark and hurt.

"Pop?" Robert sat down next to him and rubbed his arm. "You ok?"

The old man didn't open his eyes. "Not really," he said after a long moment.

Robert gave an embarrassed laugh and looked down. "Yeah, I know ... stupid question, right?" He squeezed his father's arm affectionately. "Need anything before we go?"

A deep sigh was the only response, followed by another silence. "Yeah, there is somethin'," the old man said tiredly. "I think it's time you and Angela were on the job." He opened his eyes when Robert didn't answer right away.

"But Pop ... " He let go of his father's arm. "It's only been - "

"I *know* how fucking long it's been!" The old man's blue eyes flared with anger for a moment before he realized he'd raised his voice. He lowered his head and closed his eyes again. "Sorry ... sorry ... I didn't mean to - "

"It's okay. I understand." Robert took his father's hand and gripped it tightly. "We'll do it, okay? Don't worry about it anymore. I'll tell Angie."

"Good." The old man squeezed Robert's hand and tipped his head in Angela's direction. "You better not let her hear you call her that."

Robert gave him a lopsided grin. "Oh, I have a new one."

The old man rolled his eyes and sighed. "Let's hear it." This was a long-running gag in their family, and Robert never missed a chance to indulge in it.

"Okay. Question: How was Ra *really* destroyed?"

The beginnings of a chuckle sounded in the old man's chest. "I dunno, how?"

"Someone told Angela he said her name wrong."

The chuckle gave way to a full-fledged belly laugh, and the two men shook with mirth for a good long time. Both of them knew the joke wasn't that funny. It was merely release for the grief, a kind of crying without actually crying. They kept it going as long as they could, until both of them were holding their stomachs in pain. Angela, passing through the room, gave them an odd look.

"You weirdos. Go clean your faces, you look disgusting."

This set off another bout of laughter, and Angela shook her head and went upstairs. The men eventually calmed down enough to speak again.

"Now Robbie," the old man poked his son hard on the shoulder. "You listen to her, you hear me? She knows what she's doin'. She learned from the best." His face threatened to collapse, thinking of who had taught her. "She's in charge, but you both get equal input on everything, and no major decisions without a full council. Got it?"

"Got it," Robert answered, still wiping tears of laughter off his face. "Just like you and Dad."

The old man's face froze again for a split second as he tried to prevent it from crumpling. "Yeah. Just like that." His voice was thick now with restrained tears of another kind. He swallowed hard and patted Robert's hand. "You guys should go now."

Robert nodded. "Okay, Pop." He leaned over and hugged the old man. "I love you."

"Love you too, Robbie." It was all the old man could do not to crater completely when he heard those words. He would never hear them again from his beloved, who slept cold and naked and alone tonight, deep in the sands under a red sunset.

He pushed Robert away gently. "Go tell Angela to stop messin' around up there. I'm not sleepin' up there. I wanna be down here by the fire, where it's warm." With a firm pat on the arm, he sent his son away, then settled back against the cushions.

At long last, the fatigue of profound grief caught up with him, and he slid quickly into an exhausted sleep. On the way out, Angela tucked a blanket around him and kissed his forehead. She hoped fervently that whatever dreams he was lost in, they were good. They'd return later to take him to the funeral feast.

The old man moved immediately from waking to dreaming, or so it seemed to him. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked around the room. Everything was brighter and clearer somehow, in a way he couldn't explain. A flash of white light in the corner of his eye made him turn and look. A beautiful young man with a mop of wavy blonde hair now stood by the fire pit where the light had originated. He grinned widely, and the old man grinned back.

"Hey there, Jackie Blue." The shimmering visitor addressed him with one of the private nicknames they'd used during their life together.

"Hey there, Danny Boy," the old man answered. "I thought you were dead."

"I am."

"So I guess I'm dreaming."

The young man held out his hand. "C'mere, I wanna show you something."

The old man took the offered hand, and was amazed to find that standing up required no effort at all. He felt good. No back pain, even, and a years-old leg injury didn't hurt anymore. The young man led him a few feet away, then stopped and indicated that they should turn back around. When they did, he saw a skinny, weatherbeaten elderly man in rough sun-bleached robes slouched against the wall under a blanket.

"That's me?"

"Yeah."

They stood there together for a few minutes, watching the man sleep. He looked tired and defeated, beaten down by pain and loss. His gray-blonde (but mostly gray) hair hung in careless, dirty strings around his face. Tears had dried on his leathery cheeks, leaving shiny stripes that now and then reflected the firelight. His short, scrubby beard still had sand in it from the windy trip home.

The old man's other self looked down to find his body young and whole. He wore a simple robe identical to that of his guest - the kind of garment they'd worn almost every day of their life here.

"Am I dead too?" he whispered cautiously, staring again at the aged man.

"Not yet." His companion slid an arm around his waist. "But it's almost time. You can leave now if you want to. We talked about this when I was sick, remember? That's why I'm here, to help you do it."

The young old man took a last lingering look around the room, then returned his gaze to the body by the fire. "Ya know what?" he said after a long, thoughtful pause. "I fucking *hate* funerals. I don't think I wanna go to another one."

The visitor's musical laughter echoed around the room. "That's my Jack," he said when he caught his breath. "Telling it like it is."

"So how do I know when I'm actually dead?" Jack looked from the old man to the young one. "Will I - I mean he - stop breathing, or what?"

"It's already done." The young man nodded in the direction of the body. "See?"

Sure enough, the old man was now completely still. The rise and fall of his chest had ceased. A weathered hand slid off his lap and flopped heedlessly by his thigh. Clumps of hair stuck to his sweaty face as his head rolled to the side and stayed there. He was an empty shell.

Jack made himself look at this for a while, just to see how it felt. Strangely, seeing his own dead body didn't have the emotional impact he'd expected. A gentle hand slid into his and squeezed hard. He squeezed back.

"So that's it? There's nothing else I need to do?"

The visitor shook his head. "No. You're free now."

The realization of what had just happened hit him like a bomb. He felt a burning in his eyes that seemed to him like real tears. Though there was no need, he clung tightly to the hand that held his to keep himself from collapsing.

Free. I'm free. With *him*. We're free *together*.

"I'm glad I stayed," Jack whispered, swallowing hard.

"I'm glad I asked." The young man smiled tenderly, his expression growing thoughtful. "Remember the first time we made love?"

Jack wasn't expecting this sudden change of subject. He knew he didn't have a body of flesh anymore, but he still felt a blush rise to his face. "How could I forget?" he replied huskily. "That *alone* was worth locking a stargate for."

Jack shuddered as he relived in a pinpoint moment of ecstasy those chilly pre-dawn hours on a makeshift bed of coarse blankets, begging with his body and his voice for more, always more. His lover's slow, persistent attentions had left him breathless, broken through every barrier. Most profound of all had been the sweet luxury of lying secure in his strong arms and hearing his whispered "I love you" at the moment of their joining. In that brilliant burst of passion, all he'd ever been, all he'd left behind on Earth was swept away. Not once had he looked back.

"Why'd you ask?" Jack's lips crept into a sultry, mischievious smile. "You wanna get it on? Right here?" With his eyes, he indicated the body by the wall. "In front o' the dead guy?"

His lover burst into hearty laughter. "Oh my god ... " he gasped. "Shoulda known ... you'd still ... be a fucking ... horndog."

It was Jack's turn to laugh. "Hey, you brought it up, remember? And where'd you pick up that nasty language?"

The young man rolled his eyes. "You know damn well where," he said lovingly, and gave Jack's butt a gentle swat. "Now pay attention, you'll *really* like this."

Jack laughed again. "Now pay attention," he mimicked. "I suddenly feel like one of your students."

His lover turned to face him, and took both his hands. "Well ... you have things to learn. After all, you *did* just die."

"So did you, smartass." Jack leaned forward until their foreheads were touching. "So ... " he murmured, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows naughtily, "What's this *thing* you wanna show me?"

"Not what you think," his companion answered. "This'll make that first night feel like nothing."

"I'm all for that," Jack said breathily. "Let's do it."

He drew back a bit and looked carefully at the young man before him, a perfect image of his lover's appearance when they'd first arrived here. But he was also somehow ... more. Amplified, as it were - more fully *himself* than he had been in life. Everything Jack had ever loved about him was now exponentially more beautiful.

Suddenly, Jack felt a welling up of energy inside him. His breath started coming in short, sharp gasps.

"What ... what're you ... doing ... " he panted, his eyes wide with surprise.

As the delicious tension built inside him, he noticed that his lover's body had begun to glow. The light and the tension seemed to grow together, and soon he was looking at, not a man, but what appeared to be a miniature sun. Every pulse of its light matched the vibration running through his ... body? Mind? He wasn't sure anymore, and he didn't really care. He tried to close his eyes against the intensity, but found he no longer had any.

And then the world went white.

AUTHOR NOTE: I put this at the end because I didn't want to spoil the flow of the story. A few things I thought I should tell you about this piece:

This story has been developing in my head since the movie came out, before I even knew what fan fiction was. Needless to say, when it goes on for that long, it tends to get extremely intricate. I simply don't have the time or patience to write the full story as it exists in my head. That's why I chose to write a retrospective piece that alludes to enough different aspects of their life together to kind of tell you what went on over the years.

For various reasons, I've been unable to follow the SG-1 series on TV. That means I know nothing of that storyline. That being said, you should know that this story is based solely on the movie. As far as I'm concerned, Kurt Russell and James Spader will always be Jack and Daniel. They're both gorgeous and perfect for the roles. And extremely yummy.


End file.
